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She shifts against me, soft and warm, and a groan escapes me as she clenches around my dick. I’m far from done, but she’s murmuring something about going to bed, and that sounds good, too.
Though I don’t feel like I can sleep ever again without waking up in cold sweat, lying down next to her is fucking worth it.
***
When I’m ripped from sleep sometime in the early, gray morning with a shout dying in the back of my throat, it’s no fucking surprise. The surprise is that I slept for so long. Normally I don’t get more than two to three hours sleep every night before I find myself in a ball on the floor by my bed, not
knowing where I am.
This time I know exactly where I am, even as the images still play against my eyelids. I’m half-crouched on the bed, my bed, my hand around the star-shaped pendant hanging around my neck.
Beside me is my girl, blond hair all over her face, her fists pressed to her forehead. Bright. Sweet. Cute. Hot.
This is real. I can feel it in my bones. The cold tiles of my memory, the pain, the fear, it’s all slowly fading away.
Still, it’s not fading fast enough, and I climb off the bed, fighting the shivers that come with every such nightmare. Grabbing a sweater from the chair, I pull it on as I stumble into the living room and grab my drawing board.
As I sit and fumble for my pencils, I wish I had some hot, strong coffee to warm me up, but I’m not steady enough yet to go make some. With frozen fingers, I grip the pencil and press it to the paper, letting the images flow from my head to the drawing.
Hands. Fangs. Blood. Wide, staring eyes. Harsh lines of pain. The shadows crowd the paper, meshing with one another, forming monsters with many limbs and heads, tails lashing.
And there is me, standing in the lower corner, lifting my hand. Greeting? Warding off the evil? Giving the finger? Trying to stop them? Pointing out something?
Another figure forms in the other corner, my pencil scratching way too loud as it draws her curves and her long hair. Where I’m dark, she’s bright. Where I’m cowering, she’s standing tall. She’s lifting her hand, too, like she’s waving.
Waving back at me.
We’re ignoring the monsters and the dark swirling above us, and we’re looking at each other.
I stop, lift the pencil off the pad.
Cassie.
She sure as hell wasn’t part of my past, but I kinda remember her in the dream. She was there, as if changing the memory. Making it safer for me.
Always there for me.
I’ll never forget seeing her outside back at the wedding, in her coat, with her cheeks flushed and eyes wide, full of fear and worry. For me.
When she shuffles into the living room a while later, I’ve already put the drawing pad away and am dozing on the sofa, a blanket wrapped around me. I lift it, and she curls up in front of me, pressing her back to my chest.
We fit perfectly together. Like hand and glove. Putting my arms around her, I rearrange her until there’s not a damn inch between us and her head is resting on my shoulder, and only then do I go back to sleep.
Without any nightmares.
***
The next couple of days pass so slowly I wanna slam my head against the wall. It’s my shift to clean the tattoo shop, and Zane, who should be on his fucking honeymoon, is there instead, insisting I should finish my training right the hell now so he can give me a job.
And I’m damn thankful, and he’s right—only the therapy is also kinda fucking with my head, and Cassie is MIA.
No flashbacks, thank fuck, no panic attacks, but the dreams are changing into weird hybrids of memory, fantasy and horror.
It’s probably also the stress of having to finish the training, and the helplessness while waiting to see if I’m getting better or worse by spilling my guts to the therapist, and my fear that I’ll lose Cassie if I don’t get my shit together and do something. If I don’t win this war against my own mind.
Not seeing her is twisting me up inside. I thought I’d wait to see the outcome of the therapy sessions first, before I go looking for her, see why she stopped coming over and calling, but I’m not sure I can.
Not sure I want to wait any longer.
